


Debts of Friendship

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky & Hutch try to fill in some hours Hutch is missing after an attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debts of Friendship

Written: 2001

First published in "Ouch! 13" (2002)

 

  Monster flick or John Wayne movie? Insomniac Theater wasn’t making the choice easy for him and Starsky took his time with the important decision. John Wayne, he finally nodded. It didn’t hurt that Wayne’s co-star was the lovely Maureen O’Hara. Starsky flicked the dial to the right channel and made himself comfortable on the couch as the credits came on. 

  The ringing telephone nearly made him spill his popcorn in surprise. 

  Starsky glanced at the clock, frowning, even as he reached for the phone. One a.m.--even though he was just starting to relax, most people he knew would have long been in bed. Starsky tucked the receiver against his shoulders with buttery fingers. 

  “Starsky,” he said by way of greeting. 

  An almost hesitation. Then, _“Starsky? It’s me.”_

  There were only two _me_ ’s in his life who needed no identification, and his ma didn’t call him “Starsky.” But it was the tone that made him frown and sit up, nearly losing the receiver with the hasty movement. His partner was relieved to reach him, far more so than seemed reasonable. Even more than that, he sounded shaken. 

  And Ken Hutchinson didn’t scare easily.

  “What’s goin’ on, Hutch?” Starsky asked calmly. If something had unsettled Hutch that badly, he’d need a steady partner for balance. 

  _“Could you come pick me up?”_ He almost tripped on “pick,” Starsky heard. Something was really wrong if Hutch had to work that hard just to keep it together. 

  “Sure,” Starsky said immediately. “Where are ya?”

  _“Medical Center. USC.”_

  He had to ask, heart crowding the words in his throat. “You okay?”

  _“Wonderful.”_

  The sarcasm would have been a lot more reassuring if it weren’t an obvious cover for how rattled Hutch was. And it wouldn’t have been the first time the blond had used dry wit in the face of trauma.

  No, not reassuring at all.

  “I’ll be there soon. Don’t go anywhere.” Starsky was already rising from the couch, forgetting about the popcorn. It spilled in a white-gold waterfall to cover the floor, coffee table, and couch. Starsky didn’t even spare it a grimace.

  Especially when he heard the soft snort and quiet, _“Don’t worry about that.”_

  “See you in a few minutes,” Starsky said shortly, and hung up, his feet crunching as he ran to the door, pausing only to scoop up his keys and wallet on the way. And, with a second thought, his Smith & Wesson.

  At least the streets were pretty clear at one a.m., for L.A., anyway. The night was an unusually nice one, the air cool enough to be comfortable without being frigid. Hutch had mentioned as they were driving home from work that he wanted to take a long walk and enjoy the nice weather while it lasted, but that had been hours ago. Surely nothing had gone wrong then, or had Hutch somehow been unable to call him before? 

  Starsky pulled out the mars light and slapped it on the roof, rules be damned. You didn’t take your time when your partner called you for back-up. 

  The mars light allowed him to park in the back, where the ambulances unloaded, a direct entrance to the ER. Hutch hadn’t said but Starsky imagined that was where he’d find his friend. People didn’t come in for elective surgery in the middle of the night, especially when it hadn’t been in their plans half a day earlier. 

  One of the nurses saw him coming, and said something to the doctor who was writing in a chart by the nurses’ station. The doctor looked up and then stepped forward to meet Starsky. 

  If they knew who he was, he didn’t have to waste any time. “Where’s Hutch?” Starsky asked.

  “Room three,” the doctor answered, then put up a hand to stop him as Starsky moved to pass him. “I think it would be better if I told you what happened first.” 

  Torn, Starsky glanced past him, down the hall, then back at the doctor. As anxious as he was to hear that story, Hutch needed him. 

  “He doesn’t remember,” the doctor added. At Starsky’s sharp look, he just said, “Please?”

  Starsky stepped back to face him with difficulty, frowning heavily. There was already no question he wouldn’t like what he’d hear.

  The doctor shifted from one foot to the other. “At about ten o’clock this evening, a nurse went out back on break and discovered Detective Hutchinson near the emergency entrance. He was somewhat battered and unconscious. From what we’ve been able to gather, it seems someone dropped him off in that condition, most likely by car, though no one saw or heard anything.”

  Starsky’s fingernails were digging into his palms. “Why didn’t anyone call me before?” he interrupted. 

  “Well, I’m afraid there was no ID of any kind on Detective Hutchinson. Some of the staff do know him, but unfortunately none of them came into contact with him. We weren’t able to find out who he was until he regained consciousness and could tell us. By then, he was able to call you himself.”

  “How’s he doin’ now?” Starsky’s voice had softened, not for lack of emotion but with the understanding that whoever was responsible for this wasn’t the doctor.

  The man’s mouth turned down in a sympathetic wince. “Understandably shaken, but not seriously injured. Tests revealed chloroform in his system, hence the unconsciousness and some of the confusion. He’s quite nauseated from the aftereffects of the drugging and has several bruises, including one particularly painful one on his left side, and a gash on the back of the head, perhaps from falling and striking his head. And he has no recollection of what happened to him or how he got here, which isn’t typical with chloroform but can be for traumatic injury. It’s very unnerving, waking up in a hospital with no memory of how you got there and nothing but the clothes on your back. Clothing that, by the way, looked like it was put on him, and not very well at that.” 

  Starsky’s mouth went instantly dry. “Was there...any sign...?”

  The doctor, thankfully, didn’t make him finish the question. He quickly shook his head. “No, that was part of the examination.”

  Starsky nodded dumbly, hunching his shoulders against the image the doctor painted, almost physically itching to see Hutch himself. He just had one more question. “But I can take him home?” he asked cautiously. 

  “As soon as he’s ready.” 

  “Thanks, Doc,” Starsky said distractedly, already heading down the hall. 

  Room three was the second treatment room on the right. Starsky brought his hand up to knock, reconsidered the action, and instead quietly opened the door.

  Hutch’s sock-covered feet faced him. One step inside and Starsky could trace the folded legs up to the body that lay curled on its right side, arms wrapped around its middle and shoulders pulled in close. The blond hair was disheveled but didn’t hide the deep frown line between his eyebrows and what Starsky guessed was just the beginning of a blackening eye. Not to mention the slight tremor that shook Hutch’s whole body. 

  Touching seemed intrusive at the moment, and so Starsky only softly said, “Hey.” 

  It still jolted the blond figure, Hutch’s face turning toward him and the puffy eye opening to peer at him. “Starsky?”

  “You were expectin’ Rita Hayworth?”

  No answer to his tease, though Hutch’s eyes seemed to shut again for an instant in apparent relief. Then he was pushing himself up on the examining table. “Let’s go,” was all he said, voice clipped and very tightly under control. A hard swallow accompanied the movement, no doubt trying to settle the nausea the doctor had mentioned. 

  Starsky stepped closer to stand in front of him, his answer automatic. “What’s your hurry?”

  Hutch’s wince was all the reproach he needed, but his first good look at his partner forestalled any apology. The blond hair was a mess, fluffed away from a patch of gauze taped behind Hutch’s right ear. He moved gingerly, his hands unusually active as they strayed up to his dishevelled hair, then to tug at the loose, thin hospital gown.

  With a shake of the head, Starsky picked up Hutch’s shirt neatly lying over his pants on the chair beside the bed, and handed it to the blond. Hutch pulled off the gown and put it on gingerly, but his fingers fumbled with the buttons, two of which were missing altogether. 

  So much for standing back and giving Hutch room. Starsky slipped into his partner’s space, calmly stilling those clumsy, _cold_ hands and giving them a squeeze before finishing the buttons himself. The knuckles of one white hand were bruised--defensive wounds--and Starsky filed that away for later.

  “I can do it,” came the protest of his help that he expected, about as lacking in spirit as he’d expected, and he ignored it, speaking up conversationally instead. 

  “That’s a heck of a shiner you’ve got there. The ladies are really gonna go for it--they love a wounded hero. I bet you can even get Crystal to come over and cook ya dinner.” The bewildered glance gave him the warning he needed to gently stop Hutch from reaching up to probe the area in question. “Trust me,” Starsky went on with a small grin. “You’re gonna feel it tomorrow.” 

  He finished with the buttons, tugging one shirt tail so the garment more or less hung straight, if wrinkled. One turned inside-out jeans pocket was the only sign of anything amiss on that article of clothing, and Starsky found himself oddly relieved as he handed it over.

  But Hutch made no move to put it on, sitting there with the glazed look of someone still in shock. Or fighting the edge of sedation still in his body.

  He’d stalled enough, Starsky decided. Meeting Hutch’s uncertain gaze, he asked softly. “What happened?”

  Hutch snapped out of his fugue, gulping again as he did. Another agitated brush of the hand through the blond hair, suddenly stopping as it reached the gauze. “I don’t remember,” Hutch finally muttered. 

  “Okay,” Starsky nodded, accepting that. “How ‘bout the last thing you do remember?”

  Hutch’s eyebrows drew together again. “Leaving my place. Heading...down to the beach, I think.” He was getting whiter by the minute, and suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, moaning, “I-I...need to...” Hutch was retching before he could finish. 

  Starsky had already scouted out the basin by the bed and grabbed for it, holding it in place with a grimace. He propped his shoulder against Hutch’s to keep the blond from toppling forward and awkwardly cradled the sweaty blond head. 

  The attack ended as quickly as it came, and with another groan, Hutch swayed where he sat. Starsky shoved the basin out of sight under the bed and eased the blond back down onto the bed. “That’s what ya get for takin’ things too fast,” he chided kindly. 

  The damp blond hair he smoothed back, and offered Hutch a tissue, watching as the blond clumsily wiped his mouth. He’d definitely seen his partner more of a mess before, but was hard put to remember a time Hutch had looked so much at a loss. 

  “The doc said you were gonna feel sick for a while until the chloroform was out of your system,” he said softly. “It’ll pass.” 

  A single nod, Hutch’s eyes pressed tightly shut. 

  Starsky curved his palm against the back of Hutch’s head. He could understand the closed eyes, but if Hutch wasn’t looking at him, Starsky wanted to remind his partner he was there until Hutch was able to pull himself together. 

  They stayed that way several minutes, the only movement Starsky’s fingers sifting through the blond hair and Hutch’s occasional, abating tremors. 

  The weary blue eyes finally opened, the look in them inscrutable. “I want to go home now,” he said hoarsely, already making moves to rise again.

  Starsky wasn’t buying the impatient act for a second. “Not ‘til I’m sure you’re okay,” he said gently, moving his head to keep eye contact with his fidgety partner.

  A bitter laugh. “You’re gonna have a long wait. You try waking up in the hospital, no memory of what happened, not even sure what someone d-did to you--” 

  Without warning, Hutch sat up, dislodging Starsky’s hand, and slid off the bed to his feet. He managed one outraged step before his body realized he was doing something it wasn’t ready for, and Starsky jumped to catch him as his knees wobbled. The impetuous act nearly dumped both of them to the ground before Starsky was able to re-balance himself and ease Hutch back up onto the examining table, not relenting until the blond was once again lying on his side. 

  Hutch gritted a curse. “I’m not an invalid.” 

  “Nobody said y’are,” Starsky soothed. His fingers did their own thing, this time kneading the muscles in the back of his partner’s shoulder, then as much of the tensed neck as he could reach. “Somebody ambushed you, hurt you, and drugged you. Takes a little bit to get over that no matter who y’are. And you don’t even know who the threat is. Anybody’d feel a little shaky.”

  “Starsky,” the blue eyes clung to him, “the last thing I remember is going out around seven. I’m missing over three _hours_. Anything could’ve happened in that time.” 

  “Whoever it was worked ya over a little, but that was all they did,” Starsky said firmly. With his free hand, he picked up Hutch’s skinned one. “You even tried to fight back. We don’t have all the answers yet and I promise you, we’ll get ‘em, but we already know the worst part.” 

  “The worst part is not remembering,” Hutch whispered. 

  He hated that part, too, almost as worried as Hutch about those missing hours. This wasn’t the time to get angry, though, and he couldn’t afford to let his own frustration and fears show. Starsky’s face softened. “We’ll figure it out, partner. We’re not Dobey’s best team for nothin’.” Hutch’s fingers had curled around his, no longer quite as cold or jerky, and Starsky left his hand there. If Hutch needed something to hold on to for a little bit to get his equilibrium back, Starsky was willing. He’d seen street-hardened cops get even chummier while trying to shake off a nasty rush of adrenalin, and this was his pal as well as his partner. Heck, that didn’t even begin to cover it. 

  Hutch slowly calmed again, the shivers abating, his muscles loosening. Neither of them said anything, Starsky finally stopping his massage to smooth the spikes of blond hair. Finally, voice quiet, he asked, “You feel up to goin’ home now?”

  Hutch’s absent gaze was on the far wall but he answered. “I thought I had my act together before.” 

  Starsky smiled. “Hey, I won’t tell if you don’t spill the beans about the last time I had the shakes.”

  “Deal.” 

  He didn’t resist Starsky’s help this time in sitting up or pulling the jeans on, but got to his feet on his own. One deep breath and then he nodded to Starsky. The brunet patted him on the shoulder and then walked out with him, catching the way Hutch’s chin rose slightly as they went out the door. Okay, the immediate crisis was dealt with. Now they just had to find what--who--had caused it. 

  Then they’d see who was the one who ended up in the hospital.

 

  Starsky had snagged another basin on their way out to the car, and it was a good thing because Hutch needed it twice more before they made it back to Venice Place. The vomiting left him even more wrung out, and it was with one cautious hand around his partner’s waist that Starsky managed to get him up the stairs and into the apartment. 

  Starsky didn’t stop until they reached the bedroom alcove. As much as he wanted to get Hutch off his feet, though, detective instincts were reluctantly kicking in. With no witnesses and his partner’s lack of memory, the clothes were the one clue they had, as compromised as they’d been at the hospital. 

  And so Starsky had ended up holding on to his partner with one hand while procuring a clean sheet with the other and whipping it out flat onto the ground. He coaxed his bleary partner to stand on the middle of it and then helped him undress, leaving the clothes in a heap on the sheet. They’d keep. One more minute and the blond was finally tucked in, a plastic bag-lined trash can on the floor beside him. After procuring a glass of water and encouraging Hutch to rinse his mouth out, Starsky simply sat on the edge of the bed and waited, one hand on his friend’s shoulder, until Hutch dozed off out of sheer exhaustion. 

  Stone-faced, Starsky got up and pulled the four corners of the sheet together, making a careful bundle. Collecting trace evidence off clothing was standard procedure in rape and homicide cases, not so much assaults, but if there was a chance it would point them in the direction of Hutch’s attacker, Starsky didn’t want to leave any possibility unexplored. He called forensics for a pick-up, gave the technician who arrived the whole bundled sheet, and then with a glance in on the sleeper, went into the kitchen to make some calls. 

  He’d have liked nothing better than to be out on the streets, trying to turn something in person, able to _do_ something. But that meant leaving his unusually defenseless partner to himself, and Starsky wasn’t that desperate to be active. A good detective could work wonders with a telephone and support staff, and if ever Starsky was determined to be a good detective, it was now. 

  His partner was lying in bed nearby, sick and hurting in more ways than one because of someone, and Starsky was going to find out who that someone was. Someone who’d then bothered to take the injured detective to the hospital, a piece Starsky couldn’t quite reconcile. But nevertheless, anything done to Hutch was done to him, and Starsky wasn’t about to let that go. 

  Expression still composed but eyes burning, Starsky set to work. 

  

  Six hours later, he was still working, and no closer to an answer.

  There had been no witnesses to how Hutch got to the hospital. An ambulance crew had departed just minutes before, after dropping off an emergency case, and there had been no one in sight then. No one else had been outside until the nurse went outside to smoke her cigarette and found Hutch in a heap about ten feet from the entrance. Nor had she been able to tell Starsky much he hadn’t known: the mussed and bruised state of his partner, the position Hutch lay in that suggested being dumped there, no sign of anyone else around. Even the forensics team found nothing, no notably new tire marks, no fresh blood, no license plate that had conveniently fallen off. It was as if the blond had fallen out of the sky to land at the back door of the hospital. Unless something came back to Hutch after he’d had a chance to rest and the shock wore off, Starsky just didn’t have anything else to follow up on.

  Speaking of which, Starsky heard a groan from behind him and left the unproductive work to investigate.

  Morning light filtered into the shuttered apartment, and with it he could make out his partner groggily blinking, eyes still unfocused. Starsky detoured into the kitchen for the can of soda--the stuff Hutch usually kept in stock for him--that he’d left open earlier to go flat. Chloroform’s effects could linger for some time, and he had a feeling his partner’s stomach would still feel like it was doing the hula for a while. Starsky set the can on the table beside the bed and then eased himself onto the edge of the mattress, trying to jostle it as little as possible.

  Hutch’s gaze sharpened, first on him then, with a start, around the room. That was before his roiling insides made themselves known, and he sagged back with another groan. 

  Starsky gave him a sympathetic smile. “That’s the chloroform. It’ll get better soon.” 

  Hutch closed his eyes and swallowed, then nodded. “I was hoping I’d been dreaming.” 

  “Hey, some women would call it a dream come true to wake up to a face like mine.”

  A soft snort. “More like a nightmare,” Hutch muttered pro forma, but his face was already tightening as the memories returned. His voice was carefully flat when he spoke again. “You find out anything?”

  Starsky’s smile faded. “I was kinda hoping you could help. Nobody saw or heard anything, buddy. Seems like the answer to this one’s somewhere in that blond head o’ yours.” 

  The frown line between Hutch’s eyebrows deepened even as he opened his eyes to glare at Starsky. “I told you, I don’t remember. Last thing I knew was, I was heading down to the beach and...someone called me...or asked me something...I can’t remember.” 

  That was new. Starsky leaned forward hopefully. “Man or woman?” 

  “I can’t remember,” Hutch said wearily.

  “Try. Man’s voice or a woman’s?”

  “I can’t remember!” Hutch snapped. And just as quickly went pale, knees unconsciously drawing up. “Starsk--”

  Starsky immediately dropped the questions and picked up the trash can, one hand on Hutch’s back. He hadn’t meant to push his partner that hard when Hutch was still so unsteady. “Easy, now,” he soothed as he watched the long neck work. “Easy, it’ll pass in a minute.” 

  And it did, Hutch’s frantic expression fading and body relaxing as the worst of the nausea passed. It wasn’t as if Hutch had much left to bring up, anyway, Starsky thought with relief, and stuck the wastebasket back under the nightstand. Provided neither of them overdid things, he didn’t think it would be needed anymore.

  He waited until Hutch completely relaxed again, his fingers gently working through the blond strands on the back of his friend’s head until the tension was gone. Hutch still held himself motionless, eyes glued to the far wall, but Starsky had expected no less. 

  “You up to tryin’ again?” he asked very softly, the voice he used with victims. That was what Hutch was, after all--still his partner, still a cop, but on the other side of the fence now, and needing at least some of the allowances given to those recently shocked. 

  Hutch’s tone had the tired resignation of a victim, too, anger temporarily gone. “It was a man.” 

  “That’s good,” Starsky encouraged, leaning in a little even though Hutch wasn’t looking at him. “White? Black? Asian?” Hutch was a cop, one of the best, and cops noted everything. 

  A long pause. “White, I think.” 

  “Do you remember what he said?” 

  Hutch was trying, Starsky could tell, but the ill look was creeping back into his face, and the brunet finally patted his cheek. 

  “Don’t worry about it. It’ll come later.” 

  Hutch blew out a frustrated breath. “When, later? You know as well as I do, the more time goes by, the less chance we have of finding out what happened.” 

  That little fact had been marching relentlessly through his head ever since the whole mess had begun, and Starsky had to tamp down his own frustration. “I know, but we haven’t got anything else to go on.” 

  “No witnesses, no--”

  “Don’t you think I tried all that?” It came out far too harshly, and suddenly Hutch was looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. And all at once, as it was so often wont to do with them, their roles switched. 

  “You were up all night, weren’t you?” Hutch asked quietly. 

  Starsky shook his head impatiently. “I’m okay--I had to make the calls...”

  “You still need sleep. I’m going to need your help, Starsk, and you can’t do that if you’re in worse shape than I am.” Almost humor in his voice and eyes, but also an earnest sobriety.

  Starsky sighed, heavily. Sleep seemed like the last thing he should have been doing when his partner needed answers so badly, but Hutch had a point. Unfortunately. 

  Hutch’s hand gave his sleeve a pull. “Bed’s big enough for two.” 

  He grinned in spite of himself. “Promise you’re not gonna take advantage of me?”

  Hutch rolled his eyes, which seemed wonderfully normal. “Dummy,” he muttered without heat.

  Actually, now that he thought about it, he was exhausted. Starsky pushed himself to his feet and clumped around to the other side of the bed. Pausing only to tug his shoes off, he crawled on top of the covers, lying on his side to face Hutch, who in turn had rolled onto his back and was staring at the ceiling. He seemed to be struggling with something, and Starsky just waited, watching through heavy lidded eyes. 

  “It scares the heck out of me not knowing what happened, Starsk,” he finally faltered. 

  “I know. But you’ve been knocked out, lost time before. Circumstances are a little weirder this time,” he allowed before Hutch could protest, “but we already know what _didn’t_ happen. Does the rest matter that much?”

  “It might.” 

  “Doesn’t change you, Hutch. Doesn’t change the way people see you, doesn’t change _us_. It only has as much power as you give it.” He dropped his hand on Hutch’s close shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Sometimes that worked more than anything he could have said.

  Hutch didn’t answer for a long time, finally releasing a deep sigh. The corner of his mouth ruefully curled. “You might have to remind me of that, partner.” 

  “‘S what I’m here for,” Starsky yawned. 

  “Oh, yeah? And here I thought if was because of my charming personality.” 

  “False modesty doesn’t become ya,” he murmured, eyes drooping shut, and smiled in half-sleep at the sound of Hutch’s soft laugh before he succumbed altogether. 

 

  “Starsky, where are my clothes?”

  The exasperated voice from the bedroom alcove had Starsky making a face as he put down his pencil. He’d woken an hour before his partner and had immediately returned to his case notes, but now he rose from the couch and crossed the room to the foot of Hutch’s bed. “How’m I supposed--oh, you mean from yesterday?”

  “Yes, I mean from yesterday.” Hutch was impatiently rummaging in one drawer after another, working his way up from the bottom of the dresser and leaving each drawer pulled out and disordered. Hutch wasn’t the neatest guy in the world, but that was unusual even for him. 

  Of course, he’d been swinging from irritation to contrition ever since waking up a half-hour before, not even a shower and the blueberry muffin Starsky had run out to get him snapping him out of it. People responded to being victimized and the fear afterwards in many different ways, but Starsky knew all his partner’s coping mechanisms. Hutch was scared and determined not to give in to it. If that was what it took for his partner to get his balance back, Starsky was willing to put up with a grouchy blond for a while. He was no angel when he was upset, either. 

  Which was dangerously close to how he was beginning to feel now. Between sympathy and worry for his partner, and the red haze he saw whenever he thought about Hutch’s attacker, Starsky knew he was walking a thin emotional line, himself. But one of them had to keep it together, right? 

  “I sent everything to the lab,” he answered Hutch’s question. “Thought maybe they could find something on them.” 

  Hutch frowned at him, as if trying to decide if that was good or frustrating news. “Did they?” he asked skeptically.

  Trace evidence was still a fairly new function of the police lab, and Starsky hadn’t been all that hopeful, either, but the news had been better than he’d expected. “Maybe. I called them a while ago--they found a couple of fibers they’re tryin’ to track down.” 

  Hutch didn’t look too hopeful. “Fibers?”

  “Yeah--look like carpet fibers. Can’t trace ‘em to a particular carpet, but they’re hopin’ to narrow it down to a certain kind and go from there.” 

  Hutch began shoving drawers back with far more force than was needed. “Terrific. There’re only millions of homes with a dozen carpets in each one in L.A.” 

  Starsky leaned against the wall, unwilling to give into his partner’s pessimism. “Actually, we’re hopin’ it’s a carpet from a car.” 

  That stopped Hutch momentarily, sharp blue eyes staring at him, undiminished by the black and puffy skin around one. “You think it’s the car that dropped me off at the hospital?” 

  Starsky shrugged. “If we’re lucky. They’re still workin’ on checkin’ it.”

  The rest of the drawers closed with more constraint. 

  The phone rang, making them both start. If this kept up, Starsky figured he’d have to slam a few drawers shut, too, but now he hurried to pick up the receiver. A minute later, he put it down and gave his partner a triumphant smile. “Buick Riviera, ‘73. Blue carpet, and that’s only available in their white models.” 

   Hutch’s eyes came to life again and he strode out to join Starsky in the living room. “Let’s go.” 

  But Starsky didn’t move, eyes drawn together as he watched his partner, even as Hutch grabbed his jacket and then impatiently wheeled on him. 

  “You coming?”

  “You’re supposed to be resting,” Starsky said reasonably. “I can do this over the phone.”

  “I’m fine, and the computer at the station can do it faster,” Hutch insisted. 

  Starsky was shaking his head. “Hutch, I don’t think--”

  Hutch was around the couch and inches away from him in a second. “Look, if you think I’m gonna stay here and wait to find why I’m black and blue and can’t even breathe without it hurting, you’ve got another think coming, _buddy_.” His finger waved in Starsky’s face, accentuating the point. 

  Even Starsky’s patience had its limits and he’d just reached it. He could feel his face going red as the words exploded out of him without censor. “Oh, yeah? Fine. Go on, go wherever you want, I don’t care. Just don’t expect me to come pick ya up when you keel over flat on your face.” 

  “Fine.” 

  “Fine.” 

  He refused to watch as Hutch strode toward the door, jacket swinging wildly in his hand. Starsky heard the door open...but not close. One beat, then another, and still no sound. He finally looked up to see Hutch standing in the open doorway, back to him, not moving. 

  “Forget something?” he asked coolly. 

  Hutch’s head bent, his shoulders slumping. 

  The image was so forlorn, Starsky suddenly felt awfully ashamed of himself. But he didn’t say a word. Hutch had that decision to make for himself.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m taking this out on you,” Hutch said without turning. 

  His own voice was still gruff. “‘Cause you haven’t got anyone else to take it out on. Yet.” 

  Hutch shook his head once and turned away from the door, expression apologetic and the anger completely gone. “That’s a lousy excuse for yelling at my best friend.” 

  Aw, heck. How was he supposed to stay mad after a line like that? Starsky was sure he blushed a little. He relaxed his stance and pressed his lips together before venturing, “You weren’t the only one yellin’.” Then in a sudden burst of honesty before he could regret it, “I’m just worried about ya.” 

  Hutch’s eyes softened but he didn’t answer that just as Starsky didn’t need him to. Instead, he licked his lips, glanced down at the floor, the wall. “What if we go to the station for a couple of hours, then I promise I’ll come home and rest?”

  It was a peace offering, and Starsky knew it was also the biggest concession he’d get. Besides, their schedule was completely off, having slept from early morning to early afternoon. A few hours at the station and they’d make it home just in time for dinner. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad plan. Hutch’s adrenalin had disappeared with his anger and he was beginning to wince at every movement. A few hours at work was about all they’d be able to handle. 

  And Hutch wasn’t the only one who wanted to get this guy.

  “Okay,” Starsky finally agreed. “But I’m keepin’ an eye on you.” He went to join Hutch at the door, grabbing his own coat and gun as he went. 

  Hutch’s voice was almost a murmur behind him as he walked out the door. “I’m counting on it.”

 

  After the necessary round of explanations about Hutch’s appearance to everyone they met, they’d finally made it to the computer room. Checking DMV listings on ‘73 Rivieras seemed to be the best bet, until Hutch pointed out that the DMV listings didn’t include car color. Starsky quickly switched gears to area Buick dealers. It was doubtful that their suspect was an out-of-towner; not only did the attack pattern not fit, but how would a stranger to the city know where the hospital was? Though that part still mystified Starsky. 

  So area dealers it was. Ten minutes later they had a list, and returned to the squadroom to start calling dealerships.

  Two hours later, Hutch was starting to look haggard, slumped in his chair in a pose that suggested no position was comfortable. But they each had a list of local owners of white, ‘73 Buick Rivieras. It wasn’t even as many as Starsky had feared. Coming around to his partner’s side of the desk, he sat on its corner and began a surreptitious massage of his partner’s neck while they scanned the combined list. 

  And then his eye caught on one particular name on his partner’s list, and Starsky’s hand slowed and stopped.

  Hutch turned his head sideways to look at him. “You got something?”

  Starsky nodded dumbly, swallowing against the sudden hollowness in his stomach. 

  “You gonna tell me who?” Hutch asked with exaggerated patience.

  He pointed. 

  “‘Gilbert A. Toneck’,” Hutch read, then looked again at Starsky. “Who is he?”

  Starsky’s jaw was set, and he himself didn’t know if he was furious or...sad.

  Hutch’s voice softened, worried. “Starsk?”

  He cleared his throat and got up to leave, the two words coming out bitterly just before he turned away.

  “It’s Gin.” 

 

  Gin had been a friend long before he’d become an almost-informant, the youngest member of the gang Starsky had run around with for a while as a teen. Never quite leaving the streets, he’d once helped Starsky catch another former fellow gang member who’d gotten into drugs. But his help had always been on his terms, his involvement in shady matters, vague. Truth be told, Starsky preferred it that way. He’d busted enough old friends already to last a lifetime.

  That was before there was an apparent link between the attack on Hutch and Starsky’s “old friend.” 

  Still, it was hard to believe Gin was involved. A small man, his...affairs seemed to lean more toward intelligence and organization than anything physical. Nor would Starsky have considered him the type. But Hutch had corralled him at the end of the precinct hallway after Starsky had fled the squadroom and they’d gone over the rest of the list, twice. There were no other names that rang bells. If it was a coincidence, it was an unbelievable one. And as a cop, Starsky didn’t put much faith in coincidences to begin with.

  Which was why they were standing just inside the dark alley, feeble streetlight barely illuminating the ground at their feet, let alone their surroundings. It was Gin’s milieu, and the only place he’d been willing to meet the detectives.

  Starsky would have preferred to come alone. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since Hutch had been attacked, and his sidelong glances at his partner always made him frown. Hutch’s bruises were at their full glory, distorting his otherwise blanched face in the pale light. He stood slightly hunched near the wall as if he would need its support at any moment, his fatigue obvious to even the most casual observer. And the determination burning in his eyes to all who knew him. Starsky shut his mouth and waited. 

  The shadows shifted, resolved into a man. Gin never made a typical entrance. 

  Starsky’s already taut attention sharpened, divided between his partner as Hutch straightened just behind him, and the small, apparently unobtrusive man in front of him. 

  “Hello, Davey. And Detective Hutchinson, you’re looking better than last time I saw you.” The voice was deceptively mild.

  Starsky’s face hardened. “It was you, then,” he said quietly. It surprised him less than it should have.

  “Isn’t that why we’re here?” Gin asked pleasantly. 

  “Why, Gin?” Starsky ground out. 

  He couldn’t quite see the dark eyes he knew where under the brim of the old-fashioned fedora, but he knew they were watching him intently. “Why what, Davey? Why did it happen in the first place, or why did I intervene?”

  That threw him momentarily, and he could just hear Hutch’s intake of breath behind him. His partner was leaving this in his hands, but Starsky was as confused as ever. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

  Gin shifted, seeming to relax even more. “There are certain...elements on the street that prey on people, you know that, Davey. For money, sex, sometimes even for a jacket or a pair of shoes. But there’s been a new game in town these days. Certain body parts are now in high demand.” 

  Starsky’s mouth went dry. Seemed like he’d read something about a few carved-up bodies found recently but he couldn’t remember the details.

  Hutch spoke up wearily behind him. “Livers, lungs, and hearts.” 

  Starsky cringed, both at the deadness of his partner’s voice and Gin’s nod. “Then you’ve heard. Apparently, Detective Hutchinson, you looked like a good candidate.” 

  Starsky’s heart was pounding at the forming picture he didn’t want to be seeing. “You’re a part of this...playin’ Frankenstein deal?” he growled.

  A careful pause. “Not exactly,” was the answer, leaving Starsky to wonder what _exactly_ meant. “Let’s just say I happened to know those involved in this instance. The two of them subdued Detective Hutchinson and learned, to their annoyance, that he was an officer of the law. They had just taken their frustrations out on him and prepared to finish their work when I, er, stumbled onto them.”

  The alley, and Gin’s profile, was starting to go out of focus as Starsky struggled against the fury that tightened his chest and threatened to wrap his fingers around Gin’s throat, with or without Starsky’s permission. To hear in quiet, calm recitation how casually Hutch had almost been killed and carved up...

  There was a shuffle behind him, then a slightly trembling hand curled around his upper arm. There was no strength behind it and he could have pulled away without effort, but it might as well have been made of iron. Starsky eased back a fraction, swallowing the worst of his hate. 

  Gin continued, either not noticing or not caring. “I recognized Detective Hutchinson and was able to step in on his behalf. I figured--rightly, I see--that if I deposited him at the hospital, he would be seen to and you would be contacted.” 

  “So you saved him ‘cause you knew I’d hunt you down like a rabid dog if you didn’t--is that it?” Starsky spat, stepping forward despite Hutch’s grasp, dragging his partner with him. “I guess you didn’t figure on our finding you anyway.” And with one motion, he drew his gun and aimed it at Gin.

  If the smaller man was worried, he didn’t show it, but Hutch’s fingers dug into his arm as his partner hissed his name. Starsky ignored it.

  There was just enough light to see Gin’s teeth as he smiled. Almost sadly. “I was hoping to stay out of it, yeah--you’re a better detective than I gave you credit for, Davey. But I didn’t save Hutchinson for me. I’ve seen how close you two are. I just figured it was one last thing I could do for an old friend.”

  _Old friend._ Starsky’s gun hand wavered as he blinked in sudden uncertainty. Could that really have been the truth? And if so...how could he arrest the man, no matter how involved he’d been, who had saved Hutch’s life simply because he knew Starsky loved him? Hutch squeezed his arm once and let go, leaving the choice to him.

  Gin just stood, silent and impassive, waiting for his decision. 

  Starsky slowly lowered the Smith & Wesson. He could barely find his voice to talk when he finally opened his mouth. “I want the two who did it.”

  “I figured as much. You’ll have them tomorrow.” 

  He didn’t even stop to wonder how. Gin kept his promises. Starsky suddenly felt very tired. “And next time we cross paths, Gin, I’m gonna have to take you down.” He licked his lips, hesitating, then added solemnly, “But...thanks.” 

  He could almost see his former friend’s mouth twist. “Understood, Davey. Now you’d best see to your partner.” 

  Starsky turned automatically, to see Hutch swaying on his feet, eyes drooping. Starsky jumped to catch him, hooking one hand around the blond’s waist and lifting Hutch’s arm onto his own shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you you were overdoin’ it?” he scolded worriedly. But this was just exhaustion, he knew, Hutch pushing himself farther than he should have, and not cause for serious concern. Hutch managed a faint smile in answer, and Starsky just shook his head. When they were balanced, he glanced back toward Gin.

  The alley stood empty.

  Starsky closed his eyes for a moment, then turned back to his partner. “You ready to go home?” he asked quietly.

  Hutch returned the look, quietly deep eyes more at peace than Starsky was sure he felt. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

  Usually Hutch was the one who beat his breast about the shades of grey they dealt with in their work. But they would soon have the two men in custody who had really been responsible for the attack on Hutch, and Hutch had found his missing hours. As for Gin... His being an old friend of Starsky’s in itself was enough to gain Hutch’s absolution. Not enough to gain Starsky’s, but Gin’s actions, done simply out of loyalty for their old friendship, had probably saved Hutch’s life. Starsky couldn’t ignore Gin’s shady side indefinitely, not if it ever became an issue again, but for this one time... Starsky could overlook just about anything if it meant keeping Hutch safe.

  Time to move on. 

  Starsky helped his partner stumble out of the alley and back to the car, hovering just a little more than was necessary until he was sure Hutch was settled and okay. By the time he went around the car and got in, the blond head was already propped against the window, gently snoring. Starsky smiled briefly at the sight, aware of just how much he had to be grateful for. And then he turned the car toward Venice without looking back. 


End file.
